


otabek altin and the loud menacing child

by catpoop



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, First Meetings, Fluff, Grand Prix Final, M/M, Motorbikes, Platonic Relationships, cool jackets, tiny child yuri
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-11
Updated: 2016-12-29
Packaged: 2018-09-07 21:09:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8816326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catpoop/pseuds/catpoop
Summary: otabek and yuri through the yearsYuri only notices Otabek because he's ugly. And a loser. Naturally.And when this blond child tackles him to the ground, spewing curses a ten-year old shouldn't know, Otabek doesn't really want to befriend him. But he does.





	1. Ten

**Author's Note:**

> i could probably come up wtih a better title  
> but not today

Otabek’s first impression of Yuri Plisetsky is of this tiny blond gremlin who charges head-first into him in an attempt to make it through the closing elevator doors. Yuri lets out a string of swears in the direction of his torso before violently jabbing at the button to the fifth floor. Otabek doesn’t usually initiate conversations, especially when everyone else at these competitions speak in fluent English, but the kid had been cursing in Russian, a little less intimidating than the other foreigners.

“How old are you?” His quiet voice cuts through the silent fuming of the kid next to him, who turns to look at him through a veil of blond hair.

“Ten. What the fuck do you want?”

Otabek mutely shakes his head and the kid returns to ignoring him. _Ten._ He didn’t know that many swear words at the age of ten. He idly rubs at the spot where Yuri collided with him as the kid stomps out.

He’s too young to be a competitor, so maybe the kid’s just here to watch the performances. Otabek puts the rude squabbling thing away at the back of his mind, instead focusing on his planned programs for the first ever Grand Prix Final he’s attended. And first series of international junior competitions – he’s finally of the right age to join. Barely qualifying for the top six had been a nightmare, especially when his peers are on average two or three years older than him. But now that he’s here, he plans to spend most of his time gaping at the senior level competitions. And practising, of course.

Otabek cleans up after his shoddy short program and barely takes the time to sulk at coming in sixth place before rushing back out into the stands, coach dragged behind him. The senior men’s have already started and yes, he’s watched the Grand Prix Final countless times at home, but this is a different experience entirely. He squints at the mess of grey hair atop Viktor Nikiforov’s twirling figure and swallows a lump in his throat. Each terrifically precise quad leaves his heart pounding and Otabek makes a note to try every single one of them when he returns home to his practise rink.

Viktor finishes off yet another perfect performance with a magnificent bow, leaving behind him swarms of cheering fans (Otabek claps in stunned silence) and a string of competitors quaking at the knees.

“Breaking the hundred-point barrier once more – Russia’s living legend, Viktor Nikiforov!”

But Otabek doesn’t hear the announcement, or see the scores, because when his eyes follow the lithe figure of Viktor towards the side of the rink and to where he’s now stood beside his coach, he spots that tiny blond menace. Complaining about _something_ – what is there to complain about at this moment in time – to the man next to him while Viktor absentmindedly pats his head. He comes up to Viktor’s waist but still somehow finds the courage to claw at him like an angry cat.

Otabek gapes.

The big Russian man – Viktor’s coach – picks Yuri up around the waist and carries him out of sight. Viktor follows his mentor and his angry flailing companion.

Companion.

Friend? (Who would want to befriend that small offensive child?) 

No, they’re definitely training partners. Imagine having the best in the world as a training partner. And to be on good enough terms that he can follow the man out of the country just to watch him dominate on an international level. Otabek frowns in envy, thinking of how few skaters back home can make it onto the international stage. That kid must be undergoing training far superior to anything he’s ever seen.

The next time Otabek sees Yuri is after his free program the next day, as he accepts with disappointment that coming in sixth place really should’ve been expected.

The blond git bumps into him in the hotel, yet again, and this time Otabek feels more than ever that he’s being openly targeted. That collision was far too direct to be accidental, and the fiery glare in Yuri’s eyes only convinces him of that.

“Watch where you’re going, loser!” As though the empty corridor in which the two of them are now stood wasn’t wide enough for Yuri to be able to skirt around him. The kid kicks him in the shin and Otabek takes a step back.

“Why did you even join the Grand Prix if you’re going to fail so badly? Watch me – in three years I’ll be taking that gold medal.”

Otabek furrows his brow at the kid’s arrogance and plain disrespect and wonders what he’d done to deserve this treatment. He nods in understanding and tries to continue his way down the corridor, but Yuri grabs him.

“Don’t just ignore me!” Otabek looks down at the parasite attached to his arm and thanks his parents for not giving him a younger brother. The kid whines at him like some spoiled brat demanding heaps of Christmas presents.

“Okay. Then good luck for your junior debut.”

“I don’t need your luck,” the kid huffs, and stomps in the other direction, leaving Otabek alone with his thoughts and his ears still ringing a little at the shrill voice.

\-----

Back home in Moscow, Viktor finds Yuri hunched over his tablet – it’s nearly double the size of his face and Viktor chuckles at the sight.

“What are you watching?”

Yuri lets out a shriek of surprise, twitching in shock and turning to see Viktor peer at him in good-natured curiosity.

“Nothing!” His hands are too small to entirely cover the video onscreen and Viktor catches a glimpse of a foreign name.

“Ota-bek Altin … Haven’t I heard that before somewhere?”

“No!”

“Okay, okay.”

The moment Viktor leaves him alone, Yuri relaxes his defensive posture and turns back to the screen. _Why would he care about some ugly Kazakh loser anyway? And I’m only watching this to scorn his poor skills,_ Yuri reassures himself. At least he hadn’t been caught fawning over videos of Viktor – he’s matured now and joining the throngs of fangirls is something he definitely needs to avoid.

Yakov yells at him from the rink and Yuri begrudgingly stands up, making sure to lock the tablet and stash it safely with the rest of his belongings.

He spends most of training glaring at Viktor diligently practising every quad and spin and trips over his own feet too many times. If only he can get at least one quad mastered – then they better let him into junior competitions even if he’s underage. Yuri can’t believe he has to wait three years to even stand a chance at getting into the Junior Grand Prix and challenging losers like that Kazakh dick that can’t seem to ever get out of his way. Even if Yuri enjoys aggressively headbutting people around him.

Yakov lectures him for an hour about his poor posture and under-rotated jumps. 

(“Why do you look so angry all the time?” Yakov yelled, his own anger evident on his face and in his stance. “And what’s with sloppy jump after sloppy jump? Even my grandma could do that sit spin better than you!”)

Yuri fumes. At least he hadn’t been compared to Viktor on this occasion. He doesn’t need to know about every single thing Viktor could accomplish at age ten – there are more than enough pictures and grainy videos out there. If only Viktor could be replaced by that fool Otabek – it wouldn’t take long for Yuri to surpass him and finally gain Yakov’s respect. He angrily packs up after practise and runs outside to be coddled by his mother. She always likes to praise him for his skating ability.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Blatantly ignoring the fact that u need to turn 13 before july 1 to get into junior-level competitions (otabek’s birthday is in october)


	2. Thirteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> yuri isnt swearing any less at the age of 13

Yuri spends the next three years in the same way, channelling his frustrations at Viktor onto the ice and seething as the man never seems to lag behind with age – he should be retiring already, the old geezer! Not winning medal after medal like it’s no big deal.

At least it’s finally his turn to leave Russia for his first competition in the Junior Grand Prix series, and Yakov has to accompany him the whole way. Yakov seems to regard him as more of a man and less of a kid, also. Yuri takes that back when they arrive in Japan and all of the competitors he sees tower over him and look closer to Viktor’s age than to his. He swallows in nervousness. But of course height doesn’t matter in this sport …

And he proves it to the audience in the next couple of weeks, getting second in both competitions and securing a place in the Final. He sneers at Otabek when he sees him in one of the warm-up sessions and the teen blinks at him.

“Oi! Don’t you remember me? Y’know, when you devastatingly lost during that Final a while back?”

Otabek nods.

“Yeah, well now I’m here, so you better get ready for another loss.”

He mildly nods again, looking at Yuri for a moment before wishing him good luck.

“Fuck off! Don’t smirk at me like that.” 

Otabek isn’t smirking right at that moment, but he is two days later. At least on the inside. Second place is thrilling, especially when he can see Yuri on the sidelines glaring at him. The kid doesn’t join him on the podium because he only got fourth place. He focuses on the cameras blinking at him, a neutral expression on his face as he usually has during most events in life, but out of the corner of his eye he can see Yuri loudly growling in his direction, hunched over and sulking. Otabek looks a little more cheerful in his photos that day.

As expected, Yuri is still beside the rink when the medal ceremony has concluded, unlike some competitors who will stay far, far away from the skating arena the moment they find out the results – to avoid further humiliation, or whichever. Otabek usually leaves because there’s no point in staying an extra day just to watch the committees dish out medals in an excessively lengthy process. And because Yuri is still there, he gets a fist to the gut the moment he steps off the ice. Otabek bends double, frowning at the way Yakov takes that very moment to look away and deeply scrutinise his phone.

“No fucking fair! If you weren’t here, I would’ve got that medal!” Yuri snaps at him like a terrier and Otabek roughly pushes him away.

“Why don’t you punch Seung-gil instead?” Otabek gestures at the gold medallist just a few steps away. Yuri turns to look, his fists paused in mid-air, and visibly blanches.

“No!” He whispers, “He got _gold!_ Also I don’t like his eyebrows.”

Despite the ruckus around them and Yuri’s muted whisper, Seung-gil sharply turns around to look at the blond, blinking neutrally before continuing to walk away. Yuri lets out a whimper and scurries off, leaving Otabek with an ache in his belly and eyebrows on his mind. He unconsciously reaches up to scratch a brow.

He doesn’t see the blond again until the banquet that night. Most of the attendees are adults, so those from the junior competitions are dwarfed by the crowd and grand banquet hall. The poorly-fitting suits some of the thirteen and fourteen year olds wear don’t help. Luckily for Otabek, at sixteen, he doesn’t look like an ostrich in formal dress, at least not as much as he used to. He spots Yuri only by his head of blond hair and ignores him, only to have the kid barrelling from out of the crowd and once again tackling him.

“Hah! You look stupid!” He doesn’t seem to notice that his outfit is a mess, undoubtedly because of all the fidgeting and pulling at his tight collar. Otabek wants to fix the tangled disaster that is Yuri’s tie but thinks better of it.

“Why don’t you go bother Viktor?” Otabek points to where Nikiforov stands out as usual, surrounded by a throng of fans (who are in actual fact all professional skaters) and looking like he’s having the time of his life. Otabek, in comparison, is loitering near the edges and wondering if he can sneak a glass or two of champagne. Or whether getting his headphones out is polite.

“Because he doesn’t look stupid. And – and – the heels are scary.” He points in Viktor’s direction and Otabek almost expects to see the man wearing a pair of high heels (because if anyone could pull it off, it’s him), but then he realises Yuri is referring to the throng of women around him.

“They all try to touch my hair when I get near.”

 _Like some kind of dog_ , Otabek thinks. Yuri’s hair is braided around the sides and he wonders if the hairdo was a willing decision on his part. The kid seems too aggressive to be interested in anything girly. In fact, Otabek feels like Yuri would go out of his way to act and look cool, or whatever his definition of cool is. And neat braids probably aren’t part of that.

“Then go up to your hotel room?” It’s not exactly polite to do so, but Otabek is sure no one will mind if the youngest kids depart first. They probably all see thirteen year old Yuri as a baby anyway. He himself is only staying for the food – he takes a sip from the cup in his hand – and plans to sneak out once he’s had his fill. Of course, these events are made for socialising, but…

Maybe if you were one of the numerous Japanese, or Russians, or Canadians, who all arrive in their own big familial groups and appear to share inside jokes and daily schedules. Otabek is only here with his coach. But it doesn’t really matter to him, because they’re only here in Barcelona for a few days, and most of the time is taken up by skating and whatnot anyway.

Yuri awkwardly bounces up and down.

“Yes, but Yakov will stay here with Viktor, and – what if I get lost?”

The hotel really isn’t that easy to get lost in, as long as you follow the floor numbers and arrows in the corridors.

“You’re thirteen.”

Yuri aggressively jumps around and Otabek takes a step backwards to avoid getting hit by the kid. He doesn’t want to spill the punch all over himself.

“Okay. Then go sit in the lobby.”

“Who does that?! Only losers, that’s who.”

Otabek remains silent as he makes his way towards the nearest table of food and picks up a few appetisers, taking his time to gobble them down while Yuri continues to follow him in agitation. The kid calms down at the sight of food but starts up his irritating act a moment later.

“Ugh! Fucking Viktor and his fangirls!” He sends a glare in Viktor’s general direction.

Otabek takes this opportunity to back away a little and Yuri seems to allow him, until the kid remembers his predicament and pounces on him once more.

“Oi! Loser!”

“I got a medal and you didn’t,” Otabek mildly reminds.

“Fuck off! Anyway, I need to get out of here, and you need to help me.”

Otabek points a finger to the very obvious doors at the other end of the banquet hall and Yuri growls at him.

“Of course I know the way out, but – ”

“But you’re too scared to go up to your room by yourself.”

Otabek narrowly avoids Yuri’s punch and swiftly walks away, fuming child following in his wake.

“Come back here!”

He takes the shortest way out of the hall, skirting around the various groups of people and avoiding stepping in front of any poised and ready cameras. Yuri sprints after him, bumping into at least half a dozen people before he makes it outside and stops next to Otabek.

“What – ”

“I’ll go sit in the lobby with you if you’ll stop bothering me.”

“Oh.”

Quiet all of a sudden, Yuri obediently trots next to him, settling down on one of the plush couches as Otabek fishes his phone out. He endures a full minute of the kid’s staring before turning to look at him. 

“Did you not plan to do anything after leaving the banquet?”

“Uhh …” Yuri fumbles for a while and produces his own phone and the two of them sit in relative silence until his coach Yakov appears to drag Yuri away. Otabek watches in mild amusement as Yuri disappears back into the hall, kicking and screaming insults that Yakov barely flinches at. When he returns a while later to put his cup down, it’s to see Yuri being coddled by a bunch of adults. Viktor fixes his tie for him as he hisses with unbridled anger. Otabek doesn’t venture any closer than that, leaving the room before Yuri can leap at him and drag behind him Viktor and his entire fanbase.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i love this child


	3. Fourteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> holy fuck thanks for all the kudos
> 
> here. have more oturi
> 
> the children discover the wonders of instant messaging

Otabek manages to put Yuri out of his mind in the next few months as the competitions and programs continue to increase in difficulty and his older sister returns from overseas to smoosh his cheeks together and congratulate him for every medal he’s won and all the ones he was a misstep or two from winning. He escapes into his room before the day is over in case she wants to follow him to the nearest skating arena and order him to do jumps like a circus animal.

“Hey, Beka, can I come in?”

He locks the door, putting his headphones on and settling under his bedcovers with his laptop. They’ll have dinner together anyway. He idly scrolls through his Twitter feed, noting with a raised eyebrow or quiet snort whatever antics his favourite celebrities are getting up to. There seems to be a growing trend of something called ‘Yuri Angels’, so much so that Viktor keeps retweeting their gaudily coloured edits of Yuri. Hm. Otabek supposes they won’t be seeing much of each other now, because he’s finally made the decision to try out the senior competitions. He could still stay in junior, but the idea of challenging people like Viktor is far too thrilling.

He goes to eat dinner after the brief foray into social media. That had been enough pictures of Seung-gil’s dog and Viktor’s legs for a week.

Which is why it takes a few days for Yuri’s yelling from somewhere in cyberspace to reach him. He logs in to find that Yuri’s somehow tracked him down and is screaming at him in a mess of Russian and emojis. Otabek wonders if this is how he talks to everyone around him and nearly closes the page until another message from Yuri appears.

“dont ignore me!!!”

“Hello”

“help me report the yuri angels tehyre so fucking annoying”

Otabek imagines having a fanclub. It seems like a lot of trouble.

“Just block them”

Despite growing ever older and presumably more mature, Yuri doesn’t seem to have changed in any way – still making demands left and right like he can’t do those things himself. Otabek feels like he’s adopted a nagging younger brother whom he can’t get rid of.

Or maybe a son, when in the coming days Yuri sends him snippets of quad attempts and a couple of outfits (mostly black ensembles) that he is apparently proud of. Otabek feels like a mother critically judging her son’s every outfit and praising his quads. Yuri preens, the swearing and the insults lessened just a little.

“told u i have great fashion sense”

“Mhm” 

His outfits could be a little more diverse (more colours and less animal print), but then Otabek mentally looks through his own wardrobe and finds nothing but half a dozen identical jeans and a bunch of shirts that could be mistaken for one another.

Yuri rants about Viktor’s skill and Otabek nods in agreement. There’s a frown on his face as he listens to Yuri colourfully recounting his day, but only because of Yuri’s apparent unfair treatment. Yakov sounds like a real dick – until he remembers that Yuri’s still fourteen and an infant at heart and probably shouldn’t be taken too seriously.

“im being serious!!”

“I didn’t think you weren’t” 

That acts like a cue for Yuri to continue spilling his troubles all over Otabek’s screen, yapping about favouritism and Viktor and his annoying rink-mates. And then some about his favourite music and videogames once he’s calmed down a little. Otabek indulges Yuri’s rants only for lack of something better to do. And no one else can really pester him in the middle of the night and reduce his phone to a beeping mess.

“THERES A GINT MOSQUITO IN MY R OOM”

“its 4am” 

“no its 1”

Otabek rolls his eyes (as much as he can while squinting at the screen) and goes back to sleep.

\-----

As the Junior World Championships are less than a month away, Yuri needs all the practise he can get to finally win gold in an international competition. Which is why he’s currently lounging against the side of the rink and thumbing through his phone. Yakov hasn’t noticed yet, and he idly scuffs the toe pick on his boot against the ice, carving small jagged runnels.

Something scrapes behind him and Yuri feels the light touch of a hand on his left shoulder before spinning around and violently swinging his arm out. Viktor catches his wrist and tuts at him.

“What was that for? Just trying to tell you to stop texting your girlfriend during training.”

“He’s not my girlfriend!” Yuri squawks in indignation, trying to skid away and out of Viktor’s grip.

“You could’ve just said you weren’t texting anyone,” Viktor shrugs. “Anyway, none of my business. Come, Yakov’s getting mad.”

“But Yakov’s always mad,” Yuri sulks, obediently putting his phone away and slouching so that he’s a dead weight in Viktor’s grip. The man gives him a sharp yank and sends him skidding across the ice behind him.

“Anyway, you know why he’s always mad?” Yuri asks.

“Because you’re always texting your boyfriend?”

“NO!” Yuri yells, and coughs a few times. “Because you don’t want to coach me so I’ll never be able to skate amazingly well like you and then Yakov thinks I’m shit.”

“Don’t think you can blame your own inability on me,” Viktor scolds, patting him on the head and skating away. Yakov’s usual intimidating glare doesn’t faze him one bit and Yuri rolls his eyes through the five minute lecture.

 _Whatever._ He’ll just ask Viktor a dozen more times and the man will definitely coach him on how to be talented. But despite not being as talented as Viktor is and was, Yuri enters the Junior World Championships and comes in third, proudly beaming at the audience next to his fellow medallists – who are definitely both sixteen or older. And his short program had definitely been good enough to get gold, it was just the weird footwork in his free skate. And maybe a fall or two. His ankles and knees still tremble at the harrowing experience of having to clamber back onto his feet, all the previous momentum whisked away in an ungraceful millisecond.

Looking at the audience, some of whom are toting posters with his name scrawled in English or Cyrillic and wearing cat ears (how they found out about his love of cats, Yuri doesn’t know. He thought he’d kept the cat pictures to a minimum on social media), Yuri feels a burst of pride and wonders if he can be standing on the podium this time next year, but in the senior-level World Championships. At fifteen, that’s not going to be an easy task, but if Viktor can do it, so can he. Also, that’s what Otabek has joined and the reason why he isn’t currently here. As though he were already good enough to battle it out with the eldest and leave Yuri to play with the other kids.

 _He’s missing out on some stellar performances,_ Yuri thinks. _And a good deal of pestering and insulting._ He tries swearing at the tiny Japanese kid with the weird tuft of red hair, but his English comes out as more Russian and the kid just looks at him weirdly. He looks ten. Why is he even in the competition?

Yuri stalks away with a huff.

He tries the aggressive act on another teen but only receives a compliment on his hair and has to quickly excuse himself. Who responds to an insult with a compliment? Yuri runs away, half-screaming in thanks and half-muttering in panic.

He eloquently describes his predicament to Otabek the afternoon after the medal ceremony.

“no ones letting me insult them I hate this”

“Try headbutting them” 

“go away”

\-----

When he returns to Moscow, medal proudly clutched in hand, Viktor smiles and nods at him.

“Good job – I watched your performances on TV. Think you can try for senior next year?”

“Fuck yeah I can!”

“You’ll be going against me,” he winks, and Yuri feels the corner of his mouth twitch.

“Whatever.”

Yuri idly skates a lap around the rink before Viktor calls out to him again. “Don’t forget to cheer for me at the World Champs next week.”

He doesn’t deign this with a response because he’s usually rude, but also because something suddenly pops into mind. Ah. That’s what Otabek’s going to be attending. If he takes the time at home to search up the location and dates and timezones, it’s only because he needs to know when exactly to spam-message Otabek to distract him from the competition.

“hah so ur performing on 26/3 at 9am or something moscow time”

“Yes…” 

“im gonna spam u for a whole hour before ur program so u cant concentrate”

“I’ll just turn my phone off” 

_Whatever_. Yuri needs something to do before watching however many hours of performance after performance anyway. 

The next week he spends mostly in school, doodling stick figures in the margins and turning a blind eye to the irritating group of boys who find his skating get-up hilarious for some reason. So what if he looks like ‘such a girl’ – Viktor had way longer hair as a teenager. Yuri huffily ties his hair up and shoots a glare towards the sniggers he hears behind him. He bets they all look retarded on ice anyway – like tottering, unbalanced pigs.

He’s so caught up in angrily doodling and the teacher in writing on the whiteboard that no one notices when one of the girls at the back sneaks a photo of Yuri and posts it online. He only realises once he gets home and finds, to his horror, another dozen or so additions to the Yuri Angels account (not that he follows them, but it’s good to monitor what the enemy are up to). They’re the usual poorly-cropped variations of his photos from past competitions, except for one. From when he was _fucking_ sitting in class just a few hours ago. Yuri feels a shiver run down his spine even as he notes that his tied-up hair looks pretty neat from the back.

Otabek is the first to hear about this whole mess, but only after Yuri’s reported every single photo on the Yuri Angels account.

“can u believe”  
“ther is someone after me”  
“fuck im”  
“goodbye im going to be murdered”

“Why would they let a murderer into your classroom” 

Otabek makes a good point. All those fourteen-year olds he has class with should be no big deal. He can just kick them in the face with his skates on.

“ill just stab them with my skating blades”

“Good luck” 

Otabek disappears offline for the next few days, only taking time to message Yuri in the evening, which makes sense, even if Yuri has to wonder how someone can be so disciplined. Every time he takes a break during practise, his phone is sure to appear within seconds of Yakov letting them loose.

He nearly forgets about his promise until Otabek posts a photo of Japan and the arena he’s going to be skating at. Suddenly, Yuri becomes a busy, busy man. He clears out his near-empty homework timetable, ready to watch every single event for the next days, and compiles a list of memes to send to Otabek. As well as everything on his Christmas wish-list that he didn’t receive last Christmas. Not to demand presents or anything.

Otabek doesn’t appear to see them, not even when it’s half an hour (Yuri did the complicated time-zone maths) until his performance. Fine. If he’s going to act that way, then Yuri will just ignore him back. 

And then he sees (on the livestream) a disastrous fall, violently grabs his phone, and channels his sudden panic into a litany of poorly-spelt insults. Otabek doesn’t appear frazzled, though, the same stoic expression on his face as he quickly picks himself up and continues with the routine. Some skaters will look like they’ve been hit by a truck for the rest of their routine, but not Otabek. Yuri likes to think he also remains similarly calm and mature-looking.

“oh shit that was a great sp”  
“oh fuck its viktor”  
(…)

Otabek turns his phone on to find somewhere in the vicinity of fifty messages from Yuri, a few congratulating/insulting him, but the others mostly on how great Viktor is and how Christophe makes him feel uncomfortable. Otabek has to agree on both points.

“Thanks for the insults” 

“np”

Yuri considers his insults as decent encouragement, because Otabek’s free skate two days later is just as impressive as his first performance. And then the scores are all lined up, and of course Mr. Living Legend is in the top three. Not Otabek though. Yuri closes the livestream when Viktor’s wide smile gets too tedious to look at.

“Thanks for congratulating me on 4th place” 

“oh yea”  
“im gonna beat ur ass next year when i get into actual proper adult competitions”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ye


	4. Fifteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> essentially the events of ep1-11, but not canon
> 
> yuri makes a fwend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one chapter is nearly as long as the first 3 lmao

Yuuri Katsuki wakes up with a groan as sunlight streams into his bedroom and he realises with a sudden dull throb that the racket downstairs is probably Viktor. Well, mostly Yuri. He _would_ go back to sleep, but the racket grows louder and louder until Yuri himself barrels into his bedroom and barks at him. He hears the word ‘pig’ mixed in with the other garbled words, tiredly blinking at the blond thing yapping at him from the end of his bed. Viktor carries the kid outside a moment later and Yuuri sits up in stunned silence, remembering all of a sudden his bedhead and his lame pyjamas.

“Uwah! Viktor!”

Outside in the corridor, Yuri sulks and slinks away, not wanting to listen to the two of them getting any more buddy-buddy. He’d come to Japan to follow Viktor, not to visit some Japanese pig. Yuri would leave right this moment, just to avoid Yuuri, but then he’ll probably never see Viktor ever again. Yakov and the entirety of his skating club are relying on him to bring Viktor back – which is why Yuri uses every waking moment to nag Viktor and bully Katsuki and see them somehow grow ever closer.

He admits defeat a week or two into the venture. Otabek doesn’t offer much support on the matter, except to state that Yuuri Katsuki is in fact pretty skilled. Yuri throws his phone to the ground.

He masochistically steps into Yuuri’s bedroom one day. “Viktor!! If you’re gonna walk around half-naked every time I see you then I’m leaving!”

“Okay~ Bye bye, Yuri.” Viktor waves at him from where he’s splayed out on Yuuri’s bed (for some godforsaken reason) and Yuri decides that he’s had enough. If Viktor refuses to coach him then he’ll just improve by himself. He doesn’t need some pork-obsessed fool who’s probably going to give up professional skating for this stranger from the other side of the globe. Yuri loudly stomps out of the house and all the way to the airport and onto his flight. Yakov raises an unimpressed eyebrow at him when he returns.

“So? How was the holiday?”

_I got a really nice shirt, actually,_ Yuri thinks, _and ate amazing food._ All evidence of his trip is online, so Yakov could probably find out his slacking off if he wanted to. Even Otabek had been judging him for it (though maybe because he wanted katsudon of his own), so Yuri hates to think what Yakov will say.

“I kept nagging Viktor but he doesn’t want to come back.”

“What does he see in that Japanese boy?” Yakov scratches his chin. He looks down at Yuri still lacing up his skates. “You’ll need to train twice as hard today to make up for all those weeks you were wasting in Japan.”

“I was training there as well!” Yuri complains, but Yakov doesn’t let him off, making sure he practises his quads until he feels like his legs are about to fall off. And there is a whole entire three months until his first Grand Prix event. Surely that’s more than enough time to perfect his routine. Yakov doesn’t need to work him to the bone every single day until Skate Canada arrives.

“my calves r dead i cant walk home help”

“Get Yakov to carry you home” 

Yuri instead chooses to tentatively limp his way back.

\-----

He observes with growing envy the increasing number of selfies Viktor posts, always with Yuuri somewhere behind or beside him. Maybe if Yuri were less attractive and more ancient, Viktor would’ve instantly agreed to becoming his coach. All of this he informs Otabek in a disgruntled manner and the teen only responds with a sentence after seeing the photos scattered all over social media.

“They look happy together” 

“r u saying viktor doesnt look happy with me”  
“or r U SUGGESTING THEYRE MARRIED”

Yuri looks through the vast array of photos and notes in disbelief the way in which Yuuri’s awkward smile very rapidly morphs into something more natural. More joyful. He almost looks comfortable by Viktor’s side, as if he were of a calibre to stand next to him like equals. Yuri sneers.

“Isn’t Viktor a ladies’ man” 

“i guess yuuri is a fangirl too”

“Viktor’s Angels” 

“ew.”  
“fuck off”  
“has their account been suspended yet”  
It hasn’t. Yuri casually scrolls through the weird, stalkerish, and bloodthirsty textposts and is glad to see there are no more candid shots of him. If he sees one of him in his bedroom he’s going to call the police and never have a proper night’s sleep again.

\-----

The situation gets worse a month before he has to leave for Skate Canada. It’s the middle of the evening and Yuri is plugged in to his laptop, busy with a first-person shooter game. Apparently Otabek is doing something similar, but with a cooler game. Because he’s seventeen and knows better than Yuri how to be cool. Even his outfits – when Yuri catches the occasional glimpse of them from the rare selfies he posts – look pretty fashionable. But they don’t have tigers on them, so Otabek’s not _that_ amazing.

And anyway, he’s busy in the middle of trying to gun down everything and anything he can see when his phone lights up with a notification. Apparently Viktor’s tagged him in something … He sacrifices a few precious moments of gameplay to click on the notification and find that _Viktor’s fucking coming back to Moscow_. There’s a picture of him and lover boy in a very close embrace and Yuri snarls. And for some reason Viktor seemed to find it appropriate to tag Yuri in the post, as if to suggest an upcoming reunion. No thanks. If he wants to listen solely to Yuuri then Yuri is fine with ignoring him.

And why are they even here? It’s not as if Rostelecom is happening anytime soon. 

He finds out in the course of the next few days when he bumps into Viktor (and Yuuri) at the rink.

“Oh, Yuri! Long time no see!” Viktor’s aggravating smile has Yuri incoherently snorting.

“What are you doing here? Finally decided to come back?”

“Mm, well I miss practising here, and Yuuri doesn’t mind this vacation with me. Right, Yuuri?” Yuuri stutters out a response, wincing at the nasty expression on the blond’s face.

“Vacation? Whatever, just don’t get in my way of training.”

“Don’t worry~ I’ll leave you well alone.”

Yuri might not be directly bothered by the two over the next week or so, but the constant updates on social media are still a nuisance. All of the pictures are of Yuuri trying different foods or sightseeing or sleeping over in Viktor’s apartment. For once, Yuri finds himself missing the constant selfies and pictures of outfits. At least the _intruder_ wasn’t in any of those photos.

“can u”  
“believe viktor let him into his apartment theyre basically strangers cmon”

“Who?” 

“YUURI KATSUKI”

“They look really close though” 

“last time i tried to go to viktors place”  
“he didnt let me in cos he thought i would piss on his furniture or something”  
“ ‘ur only five years old yuri its not a kid friendly space’ ”  
“i was 13”

“Why don’t you bring some cake to his house”

“The three of you can have a nice party” 

“ew”  
“gross but yuuri is there”

“Do you want Viktor to yourself that much” 

At that, Yuri blanches. Okay, if Otabek’s going to put it that way, then he’ll stop bothering him about Viktor.

“what”  
“no”

“Are you jealous?” 

“NO”  
“hes like 50”  
“and hes balding”  
“there is NOTHING to be jealous of”

Otabek laughs at his response and Yuri angrily exits Viktor’s page. He’s just angry at the old man wasting his time – nothing else. 

But that doesn’t stop him from continuing to scorn every single one of Viktor’s posts. Especially when he comes back from Skate Canada to find, to his horror, Yuuri and Viktor locked together at the lips. Thankfully, it’s online and not in front of his face. What’s Yuuri ever done to deserve Viktor’s respect, and to this degree?

And then the New Year is impending and Yuri’s competing against the Japanese git at Rostelecom and … 

Oh shit, he’s pretty good. Otabek agrees from where he’s relaxing back at home and waiting for the Grand Prix Final to arrive. If only Yuri had that sort of certainty right now, especially when he looks at the competitors alongside him. He glares at JJ and the man preens at the attention. The warm up ends with a sudden announcement and Yuri steels himself for a half hour of trying to calm down before his big performance. Otabek describes in great detail exactly how relaxed he is right now, sat in front of his computer and lounging about in comfortable pants and Yuri ignores him.

“Good luck :)” 

“yea thats more like it”  
“rude fucker”

He tunes out the world for the following agitating minutes, going through the movements again and again in his head and making sure that every part of his program is clearly etched in his mind. An announcement hums in the background and Yuri has to double check to make sure it’s not his turn yet.

It’s not.

Why is he acting so nervous anyway? Yuri slaps his cheeks a few times, reminding himself that all he has to do is replicate his performance at Skate Canada but nail every jump and make sure his spins are flawless and get the choreography perfect and …

Otabek sends him a picture of a cat he spotted in his back garden and Yuri lets out a long exhale.

Ten minutes. Seung-gil’s just started his free skate.

\-----

The whole goddamn ordeal is over before it’s started and Yuri lets out an excited whoop at finding out he’s definitely getting into the Final. Which is only a month away, but he begins to make plans to laze around all day regardless. And because the dimensions of his bedroom are a far better sight than Viktor and Yuuri making out at the rink all day. Not that he’s seen it happen, but Yuri’s imagination depicts the scene in such clarity it’s almost as if he’s witnessed it before. He shudders violently.

He tries to forget the image, but then Yuuri appears out of nowhere to hug him and Yuri crumples up a little on the inside. The man draped around him incoherently mumbles something about Viktor and Yuri tentatively pats him on the head before aggressively pushing him away.

“… Viktor …”

“I’m not Viktor! Fuck off!”

It takes him a good day or two, but soon enough Yuuri’s reunited with Viktor, and Yuri is once again subjected to photo after photo of the two of them. And Yuuri appears to have regained his mental stability as well.

As the days start trickling away and the Final nears, Yuri feels stifled by the constant reminders (all of his fellow competitors are vocally nervous online, with the exception of Otabek who doesn’t let his anxiety creep into his conversations and public life) and daily training sessions. Which is why, when he finds the time, he dashes out of the house, cycling to the nearest café with the sole intent of treating himself to cake. And getting some for his granddad, if he doesn’t forget in the midst of his cake-fuelled daydreaming.

The café is a nice place – cosy, and furnished with enough armchairs that he can sit himself down in one. Outside the window he sees the usual late-afternoon crowd, bustling about in the two or so hours before dinner. He’s not going to eat _that_ big of a slice of cake, Yuri assures himself. He gets up to place an order and swivels around reflexively when he hears the doors open and new customers step inside. And, god bless his luck, it’s Viktor and Yuuri. They’re not holding hands, thankfully, because Yuri would hate to see a homophobe openly attack them. Regardless, he adopts a defensive stance, narrowing his eyes when Viktor spots him and cheerfully waves.

“Hey, Yuri! Fancy seeing you here!”

“Hi.”

He steps forward to the counter just as the pair of them walk towards him. Viktor is busy translating the menu for Yuuri and he flounders for something to say. Would it be impolite to quickly order and then seclude himself in an armchair in the corner? He does just that a moment later, nodding and hesitantly smiling at Yuuri and Viktor. It’s clear they’re here on a date anyway. 

He can see where the two of them sit down if he turns his head a little, but Yuri focuses on his cake, trying not to feel _too_ envious. He has his cake, anyway.

Yuri nearly forgets to pick up another serving for his granddad, desperate as he is to leave before the lovebirds make him feel any more awkward, like he’s intruding on something.

\-----

Yuri wakes up one morning and realises in shock that he’s currently on the flight to Japan. And his performance at the Final is less than two days away. He’d boarded the flight the night before but somehow they’re still not at their destination. He lets out an exhale and goes back to sleep, snuggling into his cat-shaped pillow and trying to succumb to unconsciousness before the reality of the GPF catches up to him. The other competitors are all similarly on flights, which means Viktor and Yuuri could potentially be lurking somewhere on this very plane.

The idea of them snuggling up to each other in their cramped seats doesn’t help to lull him back to sleep, and neither does the arrival of lunch. Yuri gulps the meal down and tries to get comfortable in his seat. Only roughly five hours to go – before toppling off the plane and dragging himself to the nearest hotel. Or whichever they’ve booked for everyone.

Yuri realises with sudden hesitation that this means he’s going to be in very close proximity to whatever Viktor and Yuuri get up to in their spare time, and to Christophe’s stripping tendencies, and to JJ’s general unlikeable aura. Oh, but Otabek’s going to be there. Maybe he can act as a meat shield between Yuri and essentially everyone else.

Of course, the same hotel also means that he bumps into six lots of interviewers and fans, something Yuri doesn’t realise will happen until he arrives in Nagoya, jetlagged and half-alive. He buries himself in his hoodie and tries to hide from the terrifyingly observant group of fangirls trailing him and videoing his every movement.

Fucking hell.

He’s not emerging from his hotel room until he needs to go practise at the unfamiliar rink the next day. And not until Otabek sends something along the lines of:

“It’s dinnertime … I wonder what everyone else is getting” 

“And whether the waiters speak English” 

If only Yuri had his own personal Japanese piggy to guide him around the city, but no matter. 

“can i come along im really fuckin hungry”

“Sure. If you want” 

Of course Yuri wants. There’s food on the menu. He agrees to meet Otabek in half an hour in the hotel lobby – and only that long because he’d leapt into bed upon arrival. It’s going to take him fifteen minutes to drag himself out of bed. And another fifteen to decide between his five different hooded jackets.

Otabek is waiting in the lobby and Yuri realises he hasn’t seen him since two years ago. At least not in real life.

“Oh fuck. You’re still tall.” Is the first thing Yuri says to his face. Otabek calmly looks at him.

“And you’re still short.” 

Not short enough to be unable to slap him in the face, though.

“Stop that. Aren’t you too hungry for violence?”

“Oh – yeah.” Yuri’s stomach gives a muffled rumble and he tugs his jacket tighter around himself. “Fine. Then food.”

He looks demandingly at Otabek and the teen raises an eyebrow before flipping open a pamphlet in his hand.

“Got this from over there.” He nods at the reception counter and Yuri tilts his head to properly look at the maps and pictures scribbled on the pamphlet. “Here. They have restaurants and stuff on this street. And that’s where our hotel is.”

Yuri shrugs at the complicated mess on the paper. “Okay. Then let’s go to that street thingy.” He’s not good at making decisions anyway, unless they concern his figure skating.

“How, though?” Yuri adds.

Are they going to walk through the frigid early evening air for a good quarter of half of an hour? It’s gotten colder in Moscow before, but Yuri still prefers being able to feel his fingers.

“Oh. Yeah, I bet you’ll like this.”

Otabek’s slightly more excited-than-usual tone has Yuri scrunching up his nose in confusion and he follows the teen outside to the hotel’s parking lot, where he sees the _fucking coolest_ piece of transportation since that Ferrari that once whizzed past his school.

“Holy shit, is that a _motorbike_?”

Otabek nods.

“What the fuck – where did you get it?”

“I rented it at the airport. Obviously.”

He doesn’t like Otabek’s tone, but Yuri can’t bother getting riled up – there’s a motorbike to be busy gawking at. His eyes bug out even further when Otabek hands him a helmet.

“Holy fuck – do I –”

“Put it over your head, yes.” Otabek puts on his helmet just in time that Yuri’s hand smacks the plastic surface. He huffs and fits the helmet onto his own head, jaw still hanging open as Otabek moves to get onto the motorbike and switch its engine on. The bike growls and Yuri jumps – half in surprise, and half in excitement. He doesn’t need any further instruction before clambering onto the bike behind Otabek and awkwardly holding his arms out in front of himself.

“Hold on tight unless you have a death wish.” Otabek takes hold of both his hands and pulls them tighter around his waist. “Oh, but can you also read the map at the same time and tell me where we’re going?”

At Yuri’s glare, he quirks a smile. “Okay, then I’ll try to remember the route.”

They zoom off into the night and Yuri surprisingly manages to hold on. And after surprisingly few stops to check the map, they arrive at their destination. After they’ve parked, Otabek hops off the bike with an agility that Yuri tries to replicate but he instead knocks his shin into the side of the bike. 

Ow, fuck.

Dinner is a subdued affair, at least on Otabek’s part. He nods and focuses on eating as Yuri rattles off various complaints (and some compliments) about Viktor and lover boy. Otabek raises an eyebrow when the conversation veers dangerously close to hero-worship.

“Not that Viktor’s the only who can do that!” Yuri hastily adds. “I’m gonna beat his ass this year. I mean tomorrow.” His face comically falls at the thought of the short program being so soon, before bouncing back up when he remembers the food in front of him.

“Too bad he’s not competing, right?”

“Yeah,” Yuri mumbles through a mouthful of food, taking a moment to swallow. “Now the only oldies are that perv Chris and Viktor’s boytoy.”

Otabek nods thoughtfully. “Nice butt, though.”

“What?!” Yuri squawks.

“Chris.”

“Oh. I thought you meant Katsuki for a second there. Yeah, no, his butt is a bit big. Gets in the way of actually appreciating his skating.”

Otabek has to agree with that.

The conversation eventually drifts away from butts and Yuri is allowed to finish his meal in peace. He doesn’t want to think about that pervert except for in those short minutes when Chris is performing.

\-----

The ride back to hotel is less of a thrill as Yuri’s senses are blurred by the warmth of the food in his stomach and the comfortable seat he has, leaning against Otabek’s back. Hopefully Otabek isn’t similarly sleepy, Yuri thinks. They make it back to hotel relatively unscathed (the icy wind does nothing for his skin) and Yuri scowls when they enter the lobby to see Viktor and Yuuri wandering about.

“You boys wanna join us on a bar crawl?” Viktor asks, more cheerful than normal. Yuuri tightly grips his forearm.

“Don’t mind him – he just had a little too much to drink at dinner.” Yuuri says with a wince. He turns to look at Viktor in the same manner one might look at a disobedient cat or child.

“Let’s go back to our room, c’mon, Viktor …”

Yuri pretends not to hear and sharply walks towards the elevator. Luckily, ‘their’ room seems to be nowhere near his. He doesn’t need to be woken in the middle of the night by …

Yuri mentally lets out an abrupt cough. He and Otabek get into the elevator, blandly looking at Yuuri trying to wrangle Viktor away from the hotel doors and into their elevator. The door shuts before he can get close.

“That wasn’t very professional,” Otabek says.

“They’re in a romantic relationship – there’s nothing professional about either of them.”

Otabek snorts in wry agreement.

\-----

The evening short program the next day arrives far too quickly – Yuri’s mind is still whizzing about in the practise session they had in the morning. But he tries to distance himself from the anxiety and unbalanced feeling. He’s practised this routine too many times to count, and he knows he can nail all the crucial jumps. Even Viktor and Yuuri’s matching rings can’t deter him from the steely determination sweeping in from the sides of his brain and swallowing up any remaining uncertainty. Otabek gives him a nod as he exits the warm-up area and Yuri can feel confidence lighting up his face as he glides out onto the ice. The rink and its ice are foreign, but he’s skated on it enough during the warm-up and practise sessions to know where everything’s at, and how large the audience might be, and where the judges are sitting. Not that the size of the audience matters – the judges are the truly intimidating ones, but they disappear out of the corner of his eyes as he skates an idle circle, readying himself to begin.

The ice snicks and swooshes and buoys him upwards and Yuri can feel the adrenaline building and building with each perfect jump, until the music comes to a close and all he can do is collapse onto the ice, months of exertion leading to this moment.

The crowd cheers, and he picks himself back up, haphazardly bowing and waving and propelling himself wildly forwards to where Yakov stands.

“Perfect, Yuri.”

_Perfect_ , and he knows it. His score breaking the hundred-point barrier comes as a mild surprise, but then he realises that it’s higher than even Viktor’s record, and Yuri leaps into the air, higher than his quad jumps.

He doesn’t see Viktor watching from the sidelines, intent as he is in channelling all of his joy and remaining energy into furiously bouncing up and down. Yakov has to tug him from the Kiss and Cry.

Yuuri congratulates him when he finally makes his way up into the stands and Yuri spares him the tiniest smile before focusing his attention on Otabek below.

“ _Davai!_ ”

\-----

The banquet feels different this time, even if Yuri still looks like a child next to some of the other competitors. Being one of the senior men’s medallists helps his confidence. He still tries to lurk on the outskirts of the gatherings, though. Otabek joins him after a while, and though they don’t scurry away to the lobby like last time, the corner they seclude themselves in feels quiet enough.

“Congrats,” Otabek says, raising his cup like he’s not congratulated Yuri a good dozen times already.

“Yeah. You too.”

They stay silent for a moment, until Yuri hums awkwardly.

“So, uh, we’re friends, right?”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Okay. Cool.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Yea I know canon gpf is in barcelona but in this verse yuri is in barcelona when he was 13 so if that was the 2015 one, then 2017 is in nagoya  
> \- I didn’t want to have him at 13 in 2014 barecelona because then yuri=15 will be marseille gpf and we all know how fucked up that was this year  
> (plastic medals and shaky podium and no flags, in case u were wondering)  
> \- also they drive on right side in kazakhstan and on left in japan but whatever I guess otabek is just a genius at this sort of thing


	5. Eighteen Pt. 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the kids r all grown up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> decided to post just a part of the 'eighteen' section because otherwise it would take way longer for the entire chapter to come out
> 
> thanks for the kudos and all <3

It takes eighteen years of existing for Yuri to realise that Kazakhstan is next door to Russia. He double-checks online before texting Otabek.

“holy fuck u live literally next to moscow”  
“come over i have videogames”

“It takes…” “5 hours to fly there”

Okay, so maybe geography isn’t exactly Yuri’s strong suit, and he may not be doing very well academically, but that doesn’t sound right. He squints at the border shared by Russia and Kazakhstan – they’re basically neighbours.

“are u sure …”

“Yes.” 

“but videogames?” Yuri asks with a hopeful note. The only people he has to talk to around here are his granddad, his training partners, and Viktor and Yuuri whenever they stop by. The two of them have taken to travelling between Japan and Russia and Yuri always feels constricted by their overbearing, parental natures. Especially Yuuri, who plies him with Japanese food whenever he visits. Yuri can feel his hostile exterior melt away with every bite.

He _could_ ask one of his classmates, but he can never find anything to talk to them about except for school. All he does is skate, anyway, and no one’s really got an interest in that sort of thing. It’s not as if Yuri isolates himself with his phone every opportunity he can find. Of course not.

He’s an adult now, and adults are supposed to be good at socialising.

His phone buzzes in his grip, and Yuri finds his eyes glued to the screen yet again. Otabek firmly tells him that making a five-hour flight just to visit him and play videogames for a few hours is unlikely and Yuri pouts, before remembering the upcoming World Championships, at the end of the month. He’ll see Otabek then. Unfortunately, carrying his PS4 all the way to Shanghai isn’t really feasible. Which just proves his point that Otabek should make the small trip over here – or he can go to Kazakhstan, instead.

Yuri brings it up with his granddad who then reminds him about his skating career, and how he’s sort of permanently stuck in Moscow until the major competitions finish. Okay, maybe that’s true. His granddad reaffirms the fact that Almaty is miles away when a whinging tone creeps into Yuri’s voice.

Maybe after the World Championships, he suggests, and before they announce the Grand Prix assignments. But Yuri’ll have to ask his coach for a holiday, and the teen nods solemnly. He makes plans to bother Yakov upon sight in tomorrow’s training session.

But then tomorrow comes, and Yakov seems _so irked_ by something (hopefully one of his other students, Yuri thinks) and barely gives him a chance to take a breath. Yuri complains internally as he whizzes about on the ice and cringes with each yell Yakov’s terrifying ex-wife hurls at him. How does she expect him to correct his posture in the millisecond that he’s suspended in the air, or when he’s rotating so fast that the wind clogs his ears?

Yuri’s list of complaints (to send to Otabek) increases with every passing minute, until he is finally allowed to collapse in wearisome fatigue on one of the benches. His legs feel like jelly. He endures another good few hours after lunch break.

“training is brutal im dying”

“World champs are in three weeks” “Don’t slack off” 

“im 18 now i can do what i want”

“Tell that to Yakov” 

Yuri feels grown-up regardless. And he’s nearly 170cm now – which is basically the same height as Yakov. If he stands on tiptoes. Clad in skinny jeans and nice stompy boots, Yuri feels as if he can take on the world.

The feeling is somewhat quelled over the next couple of weeks when he watches videos of the debuting competitors and feels trepidation creep into his mind. And he remains hyper-aware of every single component of his programmes that could be improved, especially the new quads and combinations he’s trying out. But then he arrives in Shanghai, every spin and step sequence engraved in his limbs, and notes with a smirk how he’s looking Otabek in the eye all of a sudden. He smiles, glee curling the edges of his lips and Otabek questioningly looks at him.

“Didn’t you say you only grew two centimetres? What’s there to look so smug about?”

Yuri likes to keep him updated on each and every growth spurt.

“But now I can look you in the eyes. And if I tiptoe –” Yuri tiptoes, to demonstrate, “I can actually look over your ugly hair.”

Otabek self-consciously raises a hand to his hair. “It’s not that ugly, is it?” It’s in the same undercut style currently, but when Otabek gets lazy the upper parts grow longer and wilder – Yuri suggested braiding, which Otabek dismissed with a roll of the eyes. He did try tying it up, though.

“It’s not ugly, you big sensitive baby.” Yuri reassures, grinning at the way Otabek pouts minutely, his usual stoic expression returning to cover up his brief uncertainty.

His smile disappears the next moment when Otabek points at the heels on his boots. “Are you sure that’s not cheating?”

“Oi! Stop ruining my fun!”

They don’t get a chance to talk until later that day, when their coaches let them off from (more) practise and their jetlagged selves are finally allowed to take a break. Yuri follows Otabek to his hotel room because it’s dark and lonely in his own. And because his own is just a few more floors up, and therefore more inconvenient to get to.

Not that it’s all the different in here, he accepts. And then Otabek flicks all the lights on and turns the TV on and Yuri settles back on the large bed, already relaxed. He takes off his jacket and pulls the complicated mass of tucked-in sheets and duvet off the bed to wrap around himself. Otabek rolls his eyes before disappearing into the bathroom to change his clothes.

Yuri is still cocooned in his once-tidy bed when Otabek returns, blue eyes staring uncomprehendingly at the TV screen.

“Is this –” Otabek coughs at the Yuri-sausage, “– all you had planned? Can’t you do that in your own room?”

Yuri harrumphs, rolling so that he faces away from Otabek and with some wriggling, produces his phone.

Otabek squints. “Are your feet on one of my half a dozen pillows?”

They are, all ten wriggling toes clad in leopard-print socks. Yuri pretends not to hear as Otabek stalks closer and he idly kicks his feet on the fluffy pillows before two hands grip him around the middle and attempt to pull him off the bed, duvet and all.

“Hey! Watch it, idiot!”

Yuri tries to bite Otabek’s arms off at the elbow, and strangle him, and knee him in the gut, but his duvet cocoon doesn’t give him any advantage, and he finds himself rolling onto the ground with a yelp (“Ow, fuck!”). At least the blanket is there to soften the landing; Otabek can’t yank it out of his angry, claw-like hands.

Otabek settles back on the bed with a satisfied sound, switching through the TV channels as Yuri squirms on the ground, trying to escape his plush prison. 

Yuri eventually leaps up onto the bed with a snarl, pulling the duvet behind him and throwing it at Otabek. The man flinches momentarily before his face disappears under the mass of fabric and Yuri head-butts him in the chest. Otabek falls back onto the bed with a muffled grunt as Yuri jeers and pokes pointed and intrusive fingers into his arms and chest and one into his face, at which point Otabek pushes him off, silently glaring at the raucously laughing blond in front of him.

“No need to look so angry,” Yuri grins.

“Didn’t you say I always look angry?”

“Yes.”

Yuri tucks himself back in the duvet, this time politely resting his feet far away from the pillows, and sinks back into his favourite hobby (browsing social media), not batting an eye at Otabek huffily rearranging the bed and his mussed-up hair.

“Beka, can you pass me my headphones?” Yuri nods at his bag beside the door, eyes still glued to the screen.

“No.” Otabek replies from where he’s comfortably sat next to Yuri, a pillow hugged to his chest.

“Why? You’re not rolled up in a blanket. And you’re closer.”

“I can push you off the bed so you’re closer. If you want.”

Yuri violently head-butts Otabek’s thigh, and Otabek is reminded of an angry cat. He absentmindedly pats his head and Yuri turns around to bite at his fingers.

“Ow!”

Yuri’s two beady eyes glare at him from under a mess of blond hair and he snaps his teeth menacingly like a wild animal when Otabek jabs him in the cheek.

“Keep those fingers away!”

“Then get your headphones yourself.”

“Noo –” 

Yuri stops in his whining after Otabek squeezes his cheeks together for the umpteenth time and he fails in biting any fingers off. The duvet is getting a little suffocating, and he really does want to listen to the song that’s been repeatedly running through his head for the whole day. Yuri pretends not to notice the smirk on Otabek’s face as he docilely gets up from the bed and walks to where his backpack lies squashed and pitifully empty. Because he’s not the overly-prepared type, there’s barely anything in his carry-on bag (his luggage has been sent up to his hotel room) and Yuri realises that he’s going to have to go up to his dimly-illuminated and miserable room eventually, unless he wants to sleep in today’s outfit.

But it’s only eight in the evening, so Yuri can’t help but give in to his laziness and waste more of his time in this room. He returns to the bed to find Otabek watching an American movie with Chinese subtitles. Finally, something that’s not entirely in a language he can’t understand.

“What am I supposed to do with the headphones now?” Yuri looks at the tangled wires held in his hand.

Otabek shrugs. “Listen to music? Watch the movie? Don’t listen to music?”

“Ugh.” Yuri clambers back onto the mattress. “Gimme back the duvet.”

“I never took it in the first place.”

His phone lies forgotten beside him as the action onscreen devolves into fighting, and then gunfire, and then a sudden jumpscare that has Yuri leaping up in fright and thanking the fact that he hadn’t been clutching a bowl of popcorn that would’ve undoubtedly scattered all over the floor. He thinks of all the popcorn-related messes he’s left in cinemas around Moscow and breathes a word of apology to whoever has to clean up after him. The fans at all the competitions cause a similar mess – which could be reduced if only they calmed down a little and stopped buying out plush toys and bouquets.

Yuri’s stomach grumbles in complaint at the thought of popcorn. Dinner had only been two hours ago, but there hadn’t been any popcorn in that meal. His previous reluctance to leave the bed is now forgotten (the looming jumpscares and Otabek’s smirk help) as Yuri tears around the kitchenette, checking the cupboards for any free food.

Nothing but complimentary teabags and bottles of water. He grabs one of the latter and makes his way back to the bed in time for some horrific humanoid _thing_ to start screeching onscreen, and Yuri turns to Otabek in complaint.

“I thought this was just fighting and shit?!”

“Yeah. They’re fighting aliens.”

“Stop grinning,” Yuri snaps, refocusing on the movie and trying to maintain his usual scowl. 

And if Yuri’s stoic grimace warps terribly out of shape at points, Otabek doesn’t say a thing. His every twitch and muffled gasp is enough fodder with which to tease him in the future. Otabek himself jumps a few times, admittedly, but not violently enough to rock the bedframe or have Yuri noticing and sneering at him. Anyway, he has a reputation and a cool exterior to be maintaining.

They decide to call it a night, or at least Otabek does, when they’ve moved on from movies to nature documentaries and Yuri is snoozing in the blanket like the nesting gulls in front of them. If Otabek wants to go to sleep tonight with the bed and duvet fully to himself (and without having to stress about sleepover etiquette), he needs to kick Yuri out of his room right this moment and direct him upstairs. He does just that, poking Yuri awake when calling his name doesn’t do the trick and catching the teen’s wrist when an angry hand tries to slap him.

“Get up! We have professional skating to do tomorrow –”

“Can’t I sleep here?” Yuri mumbles.

“No.”

Yuri weakly flails in his grip when Otabek attempts to pick him up under the armpits and carefully deposit him on the ground (it’s more of a loud thud).

“Ughh, go away – let me sleep…”

“You can sleep in your own room.”

“I don’t know where it is,” Yuri moans, still feigning sleep. He squints at Otabek out of one eye and quickly shuts it upon seeing his annoyed expression.

“Do you need me to take you there?” Otabek sighs, himself wanting to crawl into the empty bed Yuri has just vacated.

“Yes.”

All of a sudden, Yuri very cooperatively allows himself to be hauled off the ground and even holds his backpack when directed. He follows Otabek out of the room and nonchalantly leads the way down the corridor and into the elevator, looking a lot more alive than he did a moment ago.

“Why couldn’t you have made this trip by yourself?” Otabek asks in irritation. 

“It’s cold. And dark. And scary.”

It’s not cold or dark or scary, as a matter of fact. At least not inside the hotel. The shuttered windows along the corridor reveal slivers of the night sky and glimmers of light from the still-bustling city outside. But the sight can barely be seen for the reflections the light fixtures make on the glass. The route they take is so lit up that Yuri’s room comes as a sudden contrast – its interior not yet visible as darkness creeps in from the sliding doors leading to the balcony. 

Otabek watches silently as Yuri checks out the room and puts his backpack down beside his luggage, bouncing a few times on the neatly-made bed before settling down.

“Wanna watch another movie?” He asks after a beat.

“No.”

Otabek turns around to exit from the door he’d just entered and Yuri’s voice cuts across the room again.

“Sure you don’t want me to walk you to your room? It’s far~”

Otabek doesn’t even deign the question with a verbal response, snorting and closing the door behind him as Yuri lazily falls back onto the bed with a thump.

\-----

Otabek warms up off-rink after the brief practise session and waits for his turn – he drew second, which he’s not sure if he’s thrilled about or not. Yuri’s going fourth, so Otabek is the first to venture out into the unknown, and in front of the intimidating and watchful audience. He smushes Yuri’s cheeks together when the agitated furrow on his own forehead becomes a little too pronounced – and immediately feels himself calm down a little, at Yuri’s expense.

Yuri wishes him good luck even as he’s swearing and spitting.

Otabek does the same less than half an hour later, but from a distance, in the stands. Yuri’s fans – becoming more rabid as Yuri matured into less of a loud infant and more of a man – scream and cheer as he readies himself, limbs poised and a millisecond away from slipping into those familiar, dancing movements. He watches out of the corner of his eyes as they wave their banners in coordination – Otabek can’t imagine doing that, not when he’s so focused on Yuri’s every graceful movement. And because Yuri would stop in his skating to watch him fangirl and record the whole scene, laughing uproariously. Otabek grits his teeth.

The music ends with a whoosh, and so does Yuri, whirling to a stop. Otabek had briefly entertained the idea of buying a plush cat or something similar to throw onto the rink right at this moment, but it’s a long way to throw from where he’s sat. Would be better to give it to Yuri in person.

Ah, and especially because Yuri’s birthday was a few weeks ago. Otabek swallows a sudden lump in his throat at the thought of not having actually bought anything for his friend. He’d sent the usual birthday messages and ugly e-cards on the day itself, but not a present. 

The guilt is pushed to the back of his mind when Yuri joins him on the stands to watch the rest of the performances and grins at him in exhilaration.

“Did you see my performance? It went great!”

Otabek nods. “Of course I was watching.”

Yuri passes the plush cat he’s holding (Otabek had seen the way he’d carefully scrutinised every toy in his vicinity before choosing that one) to him before undoing his hair and letting the long strands fall onto his shoulders. He had cut it short the year before, trying to see if it would make him look cooler (the fangirls had squealed in response), but promptly grown it out again. Yuri confessed it was because the bed-head was a menace to deal with and he really didn’t understand how all these people with short hair can put up with it. 

With a little patience, and a lot of reckless confidence, Otabek replied. Whatever styling is just going to be messed up by a good session of skating practise, so it’s better to adopt messy itself as a style. Which wasn’t a good enough answer for Yuri, apparently, because he had then stayed away from the hairdresser’s until his hair grew back out.

Otabek patiently holds the cat (and squeezes it a few times) as Yuri combs out the tangles and kinks with his fingers and watches the next competitor getting ready to begin.

“Pass the cat.”

Otabek passes the soft toy back. His lap is left feeling a little less warm than before. Maybe he should invest in a full-time squashy animal or two for his competitions, or just pick one off the ground at his next performance. The one sitting on his bed right now does look a bit lonely, after all.

\-----

The children debuting this year are all scarily skilled, and Otabek makes a mental note to try out some new quads and combination jumps before the Grand Prix series begins. Not that he fancies spraining an ankle or two, but if he wants to remain on the podium, like at the World Champs, then some revising of his programmes is in order. Yuri doesn’t seem to be worrying, which makes sense at his age. Otabek feels a little like a weary old man in comparison.

They part ways at Shanghai Airport having made plans (mostly Yuri) for a trip late-April. Yuri begs Otabek to come to Moscow, and to stay at his house and eat pirozhki and also while the days away on his PS4. Otabek promises to check with his coach.

A four day long trip is fine, apparently, and Otabek gathers together some of his earnings from various competitions for a return flight to Moscow. He wonders if living at Yuri’s for the whole time is a bit discourteous, but the teen is more than okay with the idea. His excitement is as wild as the frantic fuss Otabek’s family builds up the day before his departure, intent on plying him with enough food that he doesn’t miss the homecooked dinners during his time away. It’s like this before every overseas competition, and Otabek fights the urge to roll his eyes, assuring everyone that he’s definitely had enough and retiring to his room. He’s not going to be starving over at Yuri’s or anything.

His suitcase hasn’t even been given a chance to gather dust before it’s wrenched out of the closet and laid on the ground like the corpse of an animal. Otabek doesn’t even dread packing by this point – his actions are mechanical and practised. Only the thought of gifts to Yuri and his grandfather stop him in his tracks. Ah, something cats. As though Yuri doesn’t already own everything cat-related after his years of obsession.

Otabek tentatively decides on a tin of biscuits and a cat-patterned scarf. Because why not. Yuri’s granddad graciously accepts the biscuits and Yuri immediately tries on the scarf, wearing it from the airport into their car as though he hadn’t already been sufficiently dressed for the cold. Otabek beams.

He continues to beam on the way to Yuri’s house and then up into his bedroom, so much so that Yuri snaps at him for looking weird before laughing and telling Otabek not to look so glum.

“Just joking.”

Otabek huffs. He scuffs his slippered feet against the carpet as Yuri half-disappears into a closet in search of an inflatable mattress. 

“I don’t think my bed is big enough for the both of us,” Yuri says to the closet wall, “And I’ll push you off halfway through the night anyway.”

Otabek hadn’t even thought that sharing a bed was an option. He awkwardly steps around Yuri’s room, taking off his jacket and draping it on his suitcase. The place is spacious enough for them to put another mattress in and surprisingly neat enough that Otabek can see most of the floor. He eyes the precarious mess of trinkets and school stuff sat on his desk and decides not to touch it in case everything falls to the ground. 

“Found it!” Yuri yells and pops back out of the closet, holding what looks like a wrinkled plastic sack.

It turns out to be a mattress, eventually, once they bother to inflate it later that day.

Otabek gets up from where he had been lying on Yuri’s bed and watching a TV show with him (they are short enough to fit on the bed and stick a laptop in front of their prone, slug-like figures) and rolls down onto the mattress. It’s decidedly less comfortable but he doesn’t complain. If anything, they should be the ones complaining about his intrusive presence and occupation of Yuri’s room.

He wakes up in the middle of the night when one of Yuri’s three plush toys flies off the bed and lands on his face. Otabek reconsiders lodging a complaint. Too lazy to throw the cat back up (he tells himself), Otabek instead squashes the toy to his chest, feeling suddenly warmer.

Until early in the morning when Yuri wrenches his duvet aside with a loud flourish, pointing an accusing finger at the cat lying innocently in Otabek’s sleep-dead arms.

“Why did you steal my kitty?!”

Otabek grumbles and shivers in the sudden cold, trying to pull his duvet back in place. But Yuri doesn’t let him do so, only politely shutting up and climbing back into bed when Otabek obediently hands over the soft toy.

“So fuckin’ selfish…” he mutters into his pillow, already near-unconscious.

“What was that?”

Otabek doesn’t reply and Yuri seems content with jabbing a foot at his face and leaving him alone.

Good thing it’s the weekend, because then both of them can sleep in; Yuri snoozing a lot more soundly after reclaiming his plush toy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Σ:3
> 
> look at that godawful cat

**Author's Note:**

> swummeng-geys.tumblr.com :3
> 
> thanks for reading


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